


Alright

by literallywhat



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Hate to Love, M/M, References to Sex, bellamy is very fond of murphy, murphy is the trash prince, trigger warning drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 15:52:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7690579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literallywhat/pseuds/literallywhat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone told me to avoid you. Even you. You said you were your own repellant, which I always found funny, since I was so drawn to you. People said we wouldn’t get along, me with my, as you would call it, “superiority complex” and your, as you would call it, “trash prince”-ness would often have us disagreeing. But we made it work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alright

Everyone told me to avoid you. Even you. You said you were your own repellant, which I always found funny, since I was so drawn to you. People said we wouldn’t get along, me with my, as you would call it, “superiority complex” and your, as you would call it, “trash prince”-ness would often have us disagreeing. But we made it work.

God, how did our friends expect me to stay away from you when you would constantly make _digging_ remarks at me with that goddamn smirk of yours—it turned me on. And I know I turned you on. I could see you through the corner of my eyes at Raven’s party you were checking me out. I never brought it up to you, because knowing you, you would just deny it, but I saw. There was always a weird sexual tension in the room when the two of us were together. I guess we avoided it for so long, that we both grew to hating each other. Which, of course, led to _amazing_ hate sex, and then an unexpected relationship. Slowly our meetings wouldn’t be about sweat, kissing, biting, fucking…but it would be soft touches and conversations.

I guess if we want to blame anyone for breaking the whole sex thing, it was me. I asked you why you went by Murphy rather than John. I wasn’t expecting you to answer. Mbege told me not to ask you, that you would just lash out, but you didn’t. You told me about your family, about your father and mother, about how you didn’t want to be “John” anymore, because it reminded you too much of your past. I just held you in response. You seemed to like that.

Somehow we ended up moving in together. It was a shit place, but as you always said “a shit place for shit people” with a wide smile and warm eyes. You really loved our place, because it was _ours_. You never had a steady job like me, but you were the only one who saw a problem with that. I guess you didn’t want to feel like you were just feeding off of me, living because I was allowing you to. You were trying. And that’s all that mattered. That, and the fact that the whole “career in prostitution!” was always a joke—a joke I never found all that funny. You finally got a job, one that you hated, one that I told you to quit, but one you said was “gonna help us live”.

You were always the first to point out the flaws and failures of our friends, we know you didn’t mean any of it. But there was something I knew that they didn’t. You weren’t as tough as you pretended to be. All of their jokes seemed to roll off your back, until night time when you would whisper to me “Bell, you know I’m not using you, right?” and “I love you…do you still love me?” I would just kiss you and hold you until your breathing got soft. I guess I didn’t know how much it really did hurt you.

I started coming home from work to find you drunk. It wasn’t an everyday thing, but those days that I did come home, you were half conscious and vomiting. After five times of this happening, I began getting angry. I would remind you that alcoholism is in your family, that you’re slipping into the addiction, anything to try to get you to stop. Nothing worked, of course. You always have been very stubborn.

We were at Clarke’s house. You were drunk, and I shouldn’t have said what I said, but I said it. And I do regret it, I want you to know that. I didn’t want you to think I thought of you as your dead, alcoholic mother—I just wanted you to realize how bad you were hurting yourself. Hurting us.

The look of defeat that melted onto your face is something I will never be able to forget. You were gone before I could say anything else. I should have gone right after you. I didn’t. I should have. Fuck, I should have. I don’t know why I didn’t. It took me five minutes to get myself to move from my position, looking into the spot where you once stood. I ran out of the house to get you, you couldn’t have gone far, you were drunk and not the fastest walker around town. But then I noticed something. The car was gone. The car we first had sex in, the car you named “Emori”. The car that got us to Clarke’s house, and the car you took while you were drunk and hurt. The car that you were last alive in. The car that collided with a tree, and the car that didn’t keep you safe.

And now I’m on my knees, on a pile of dirt and grass in front of a headstone with dates that were far too close together. I know you’d make some crud joke about me being on my knees for you, every time I visit I think of that. I’ve been meaning to laugh, but it hasn’t happened yet.

It’s been a month. I know everything is still fresh, and things will “get better”, but I will never love someone the way I loved—love—you.

I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry for how things ended. I love you.

And, Murphy, I know you loved me.

**Author's Note:**

> i was listening to "Alright" by Keaton Henson, and then wrote this lol. please leave me comments or kudos and tell me how i can improve. thank u for reading!  
> if u want, my tumblr is arrange-me  
> ily ty


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